The good news is that the cosmos rose through your spine like a sunrise and you briefly understood everything from quarks to forgiveness. The bad news is the dishwasher still thinks it’s a fountain, your inbox has discovered mitosis, and someone ate your labeled leftovers. Enlightenment, it turns out, has a robust return policy: no refunds, store credit only.

The first week after a big awakening feels like coming home from a transformative trip and finding your house unchanged except for the plant that died precisely while you were learning how not to be attached to plants. You float into the kitchen, a lighthouse in a long dress and leggings, and the toaster says, “Cool aura, champ. Bread?” The cat does not care that you have seen through the veil. The cat is the veil.

Your friends ask whether you’re “still… you.” You are, though now “you” includes a small weather system. Warm front in the sternum, scattered clarity by noon, a chance of tears over advertisements involving elderly dogs. The world is dazzling and deeply inconvenient. The grocery store becomes a temple with fluorescent lighting. The produce section is an ethics seminar. You stand between the apples and the avocados, sensing their biographies, and someone with a cart asks if you’re in line. You are always in line now—between the Infinite and the cashier with a cough.

People imagine life after kundalini is effortless. In reality, it’s just… obvious. Things you previously got away with—like answering texts with a sigh instead of a sentence—now feel like stealing from the tip jar of the universe. The surge didn’t make you perfect; it made hypocrisy more expensive. There’s a wistful moment where you realize you can either be “right” or have peace in your group chat. You choose peace, and your thumbs file a complaint.

Some practical notes. Your breath, newly promoted, will try to manage your calendar. This is fine. Let........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)